


hey batter, batter swing

by jooheon



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Aged up characters, Derek is a catcher, M/M, Pro baseball AU, This is me coming out to say that yes I was TW trash for a time there
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-09-01
Updated: 2017-09-01
Packaged: 2018-12-22 08:08:44
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 728
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11963256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jooheon/pseuds/jooheon
Summary: Stiles and Derek meet again at the plate during Stiles' major league debut.





	hey batter, batter swing

**Author's Note:**

> YES, I had a Sterek phase, of COURSE I had a Sterek phase. I also had a Hoechlin phase that may or may not be ongoing. And I also had a phase of bitterly wishing that the Beacon Hills sport of choice was baseball. And then, apparently, I wrote this. Posting unedited because why not, let's have it out here in all of its outdated glory!

Stiles bats seventh, doesn't get up until the top of the second. And then he takes his sweet time sauntering up to the plate, readjusting his batting gloves and kicking dirt around in the box, waving the bat every which way as he gets the sign from the third base coach, until finally the Giants' catcher pounds his mitt and says, "Hey, batter up."

"Yep," Stiles says, hastily taking his stance. "Right. Batter here. I'm up."

"I see you're still an airhead, Stilinski," the catcher tells him, voice muffled from behind the mask. "How'd you make it to the majors?"

"I see you're still an asshole," Stiles says, crooking his back elbow a couple times. He'd been dreading this, but it's like nothing's changed in the past five years; tension melts from his spine, and he digs his right heel into the dirt.

"Just making an observation," the catcher says mildly. Stiles doesn't have to look down to know the look of amusement on that familiar face.

"Just call the pitch, Hale," he commands, his voice low. 

It comes in fat, a fastball high and outside. His spot. Stiles doesn't swing.

"Strike," yells the blue.

"Don't patronize me," Stiles warns as he steps out of the box. His bat whistles with each practice swing. 

"That was your freebie," Derek says, his voice uncharacteristically warm as he settles into his crouch. "You should have taken it."

"I don't need freebies against Lahey," Stiles sniffs. 

"You need freebies against me," Derek corrects. 

But the next pitch is low and in, practically in the dirt. Stiles realizes that Derek's buying time.

"My devastating good looks," Stiles says when he steps into the box for the third pitch.

"Huh?"

"You asked how I made it to the majors," Stiles explains.

"Ah." He's smirking, there's no way he's not smirking. Derek has a first rate smirk. Stiles itches to turn and look at him, but the pitcher is stepping onto the rubber. "I should have guessed."

Ball two, a screwball that practically kisses his left shin. 

"How's Cleveland treating you?" Derek asks as he wings the ball back to the pitcher from his knees.

"Could be worse," Stiles says, stepping out of the box with a slight shrug. "At least I'm out of the farm system."

"Yeah, congrats on that." 

"Thanks."

Stiles steps back in. Lahey looks annoyed at Derek's sign, shakes it off. He shakes off another sign. Stiles steps out of the box.

"I should have called you," Derek says. "I wanted to, when I heard."

"S'okay," Stiles says matter-of-factly, "I got a new number a couple years ago."

"Still."

Stiles allows himself his first peek at Derek's face now, as he steps once more into the batter's box. The mask obscures most of his features, but there -- his eyes, they're exactly the same. Intense, the media likes to call them. I used that adjective first, Stiles always thinks. Either way,  it's pretty apt. Derek currently seems to be engaged in a staring contest with his pitcher. He seems to be winning.

Stiles lets his own eyes rove briefly over the rest of Derek's figure: the broad shoulders and solid, muscled arms, the steady thighs, perfectly balanced in a textbook catcher's crouch. Yep, he still has the body of a god. Stiles knows that beneath the loose-fitting jersey and catcher's gear is a perfect storm of toned pectorals and pronounced abdominals and dark body hair, a product of freakish dedication to the gym and good genes. His self esteem takes a couple hits just imagining it. He turns his attention back to the pitcher. 

Strike two, an offspeed pitch brushing the inside corner of the plate. Two strikes and he hasn't swung the bat even once; he can feel the hitting coach glaring from the first base dugout. 

"I'll get your number after the game," Derek says. "We can get drinks or something."

"Actually," Stiles says, then stops, embarrassed. 

"What?"

"I still have yours saved," he confesses. "So. I'll text you."

"Oh," Derek says, sounding pleased. "Okay."

The next pitch is high and outside again, a no-nonsense fastball. Stiles sends it screaming deep into the gap in right center, scoring the run from second. It's his first hit, his first RBI in the major leagues. Part of him is pleased, part of him a little pissed, that Derek called that pitch. 

  
  


**Author's Note:**

> In case you were curious: Stiles eventually gets traded from the Indians to the A's, which is terribly convenient for keeping in touch with Derek over in SF. Scott, who was the starting pitcher in high school but never wanted to go pro, occasionally drives up from Beacon Hills to cheer them both on when they play at AT&T Park.


End file.
